Marriage Matters

Seven

Thanks to June’s horrid neighbor, she spent three perfectly good gardening days indoors. This was all thanks to the glare from the copper roof of the gazebo, which Charley Montgomery hadn’t bothered to tear down. June spent the time at her bedroom window, watching him like a sniper.

When Wednesday night rolled around, she had no choice but to step away from the window and make herself presentable for her weekly mahjong group. Her goal was to put together a look so outlandish that no one would notice her eyes were red and puffy from crying. That way, she could keep the ladies of the Chicago Mahjong Club out of her personal business.

The Chicago Mahjong Club was started during Prohibition, in an effort to provide the ladies of society another opportunity to live above the law. June’s mother-in-law had been an original member. June was grateful for the group, as its members had become her very best friends. But because they were best friends, June knew better than to share her distress over Charley Montgomery. If she did, the topic could become a point of focus for months.

So, that night, June strutted into her mahjong group wearing a vintage Chanel dress, at least ten strands of pearls and a pair of black lace gloves. The three-inch heel on her knee-high crocodile boots gave her a commanding presence, which she worked to her advantage as she walked.

“Hello, June.” The collective murmur was impressed. “Looking good.”

June blew a benevolent round of air kisses, then beelined to her typical table. Sliding into her seat, she eyed her best friend, Bernice Bernard. The old dear was as regal as always, with her perfectly dyed jet-black hair and bright red lipstick. Unfortunately, Bernice was watching June with concern.

“Why, you’ve been crying,” she barked.

“Bernice,” June scolded. “You certainly do not have to announce it.”

It was a pointless statement, as Bernice announced everything. She’d always been the loudest talker in the room. Everyone said the best way to get a good dish of Chicago gossip was to stand within twenty yards of Bernice.

“I don’t need to announce it.” Bernice tucked a strand of her perfect pageboy behind one ear and examined June. “Anyone can see that, behind that black netting, your eyes are bright red.”

“I’m sure my eyes look just fine.” As though to prove the point, June pulled her compact out of her purse and flipped it open. The rims of her eyes were lined in pink, and the tiny bags under her eyes were shining. “Well.” June snapped her compact shut. “Perhaps my eyes are not red from crying. Perhaps they are red because I’ve been smoking marijuana.”

Bernice’s brown eyes lit up. “Really? That might be a nice way to pass the time.”

“Hello, darlings. How are we this evening?” Rose Weston swooped over in a crunch of taffeta, passing air kisses like an infectious disease. Rose had worn taffeta in some form or another ever since June had known her. Today, the selection was an emerald green shirt with a ruffle along the bustline.

“Why, June.” Rose’s catlike eyes gazed at her in surprise. “Have you been smoking marijuana?”

June was starting to get annoyed. “No. But apparently, Bernice would like to.”

“Bernice, you should,” Rose cried. “Perhaps it would help you to loosen up.”

“Loosen up?” Bernice glared. “The last time I looked in the mirror, I was perfectly capable of moving my forehead and blinking my eyes. You’re the one who needs to loosen up.”

Rose was a victim of Botox, so much so that it was sometimes difficult to read her expression. June liked to joke that Rose should quit mahjong and take up poker instead. She’d be quite good.

“Honey . . .” Rose patted Bernice on the shoulder. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. And judging by those crow’s-feet, you really should.”

“I will be getting some aperitifs.” Bernice stood up from the table and stalked away. Her full hips swayed with every step.

The tension between Rose and Bernice had started fifty years ago, when they had gone head-to-head for a man. Rose tried every dirty trick in the book, even going so far as to tell him that Bernice was carrying another man’s child. It was a particularly low blow at the time and typically very effective. In the end, Rose had lost interest in the man and Bernice married him. But the battle between the two had never stopped.

Rose took a seat at their table. “Darling, do tell me before Bernice gets back. Why on earth have you been crying?”

Even though June knew better than to confide in her taffeta-clad friend, crying often took a toll on good judgment. “I’ve been having trouble with my neighbor,” June blurted out.

“Oh, dear,” Rose said, delighted. Tapping the tips of her manicure, her nails made a sound that could easily be mistaken for a torture technique. “What sort of trouble and how can I help?”

June considered. Turning rabbits loose in Charley’s garden was one thing. Adding Rose to the equation would be like injecting them with rabies.

“Don’t worry about me.” June sat up straight. “I have the situation with him under control.”

“Aha.” Rose gave a slow smile. “This mysterious neighbor is a he.” At the pronoun, at least three women glanced their way. “Now . . .” She fluffed her dyed red hair. “This wouldn’t happen to be the delicious man who was sitting outside during our Garden Club, was it?”

June forced her expression to remain blank. “Hmm. I don’t quite remember.”

“Don’t remember what?” Bernice returned to the table with a plate full of spongy macaroons. She pulled out her chair, deliberately whacking it against Rose’s leg. “Sorry,” she sang, moving to sit.

Rose was quick. Her designer pumps shot out and shifted that seat like something out of musical chairs. Bernice had to grab the table to keep from tumbling to the ground.

June chuckled. Watching their war play out never ceased to be entertaining. However, there were days that she suspected the two women wished they could get past it all and just be friends.

“Rose is speaking of my horrid neighbor. And he certainly is not handsome—”

“Scrumptious,” Rose insisted, reaching for one of Bernice’s macaroons. Her red lipstick smeared across the cookie before she set it back onto the plate. “Bernice, darling, this neighbor was on display throughout the entirety of our Garden Club party.”

A flash of recognition crossed Bernice’s face. “June, you’ve been crying over sweet, little old Charley?”

June scoffed. Where were her friends finding these ridiculous adjectives for this man? Charley Montgomery was not sweet. He wasn’t little, either. The man was tall, with strong arms. If he was ever inside June’s parlor, she imagined he would be knocking into her antique trinkets left and right. Not that there ever would be a reason for him to be inside her parlor, but still. It was something to consider.

“Rose, this poor man lost his wife just over two years ago.” Bernice took a sip of her tea and smiled. “June has been flouncing around her garden, tormenting him ever since.”

“I do not flounce,” June cried.

“Of course you do,” Bernice and Rose chorused. They eyed each other with irritation.

“I vote that you stop torturing the poor man.” Bernice’s voice boomed across the wood-paneled study. “Invite him over for tea.”

“I will not be inviting him anywhere.” June took off her hat and tugged at her black lace gloves. “The only thing that gives me any hope of surviving the situation is that it will be winter soon. We will be unable to garden and I will not see him until spring.”

“Well, based on what I saw of him . . .” Rose licked her lips and reached for the painted macaroon. “That would be your loss.” She chewed for a moment. “Which house does he live in again? The one on the right or the left, if I’m facing your home?”

“The left.” June narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Sorry I’m late.” Dorothy Chambers rushed up and slid into her chair. Slipping on her glasses, she said, “What did I miss?”

“We’re talking about June’s neighbor.” Bernice shook her head. “He’s very lonely.”

Dorothy adjusted her silver-framed glasses and peered at June. “Widow?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” June wished she’d done a better job of keeping this conversation at bay. “What is wrong with you people?”

“Nothing is wrong with us,” Rose said. “If your neighbor is a lonely widow, with only gardening as a companion, it’s our duty as women of society to bring him a casserole. Or two.”

June felt as though Rose had slapped her in the face. “I beg your pardon?”

“Rose,” Bernice hissed. “Don’t you dare.”

Rose patted her red hair like a film star. “June doesn’t like the man. What would it hurt?”

“Considering she doesn’t like him, we should stay away from him altogether.” Bernice folded her hands. “Right, June?”

Even though the very thought of Charley made her want to grab the mahjong tiles and throw them across the room, June certainly did not want Rose to make friends with him. The thought did not sit well with her. Not at all.

A bell rang at the front of the room, as though at the start of a boxing match. Rue Gable, with her perfectly coiffed hair and St. John’s pantsuit, held up an envelope full of money. “I think it’s time to get started, ladies,” she said. “Tonight, we are playing for quite a prize.”

“We certainly are,” Bernice mumbled.

“Good luck,” Rose said sweetly, then dealt out the tiles.